


Sixty Second Stuckies

by Maelipstick



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky has a potty mouth, Bucky needs a hug, Epilepsy, F/M, Frottage, Love Wins, M/M, Rimming, Shagged out super-soldiers, Stucky - Freeform, Trauma and recovery, aquired brain injury, assplay, bucky barnes ain't the marrying type, handjobs, happy Bucky, minor references to torture, morning after sex, recovery fic, sexual taunting, stucky dump, the dreaded het, tumblr stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-07 12:50:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4263861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maelipstick/pseuds/Maelipstick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A scraggly selection of the quickie Stucky (and Steggy) scenarios I posted on Tumblr.</p><p>In which Bucky adapts to his epilepsy, accepts a last mission from Agent Carter and declines a marriage proposal from America's beefiest bachelor. (Because you don't marry your best friend.)</p><p>Roughly in the same universe as 'Blue Dress' but trash-free.</p><p>Some minor references to Bucky's brainwashing and torture, and a minor sexual taunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea that Bucky had epilepsy came from Joy Division's [She's Lost Control](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZGMDBppWBOo) seeming to fit the helicarrier fight. To me anyway.
> 
> It then seemed to fit perfectly as a likely outcome of Bucky's brain wipes.

The first time he reset it scared the hell out of him. 

He came round just like after a wipe, brainless, boneless, the pressure in his head making him retch and then vomit, puking out the splitting pain over…

Carpet. He’d never been wiped in a room with carpet before. It scratched his cheek. He was not sitting, he was not strapped in…he had no idea how he got here. 

He has been hit by a truck.

His head was like a balloon filled to bursting and he wonders if he had fallen again.

Falling again. He blinked the snow out of his eyes and Steve said:

“It’s okay Bucky.”

Steve had wiped him. Steve had got his hands on Zola’s machine. The motor neurons, the tiny lightning bolts in his upper cerebral cortex now connected to metal crackled static; his left arm flexed involuntarily.

“It’s okay.”

Steve had his hand on his back. His body was floppy, dead fish, rubber tubing. He screamed.

He screamed until Steve took his hand away. He was fresh out and that was when they could do anything.

They had done everything: their killing machine was prone, shorted out from excess electricity. It was their chance to play with death.

They’d put braids in his hair and called him a pretty girl. They’d slammed his face into the concrete. They’d kicked his naked ass, nearly twisted off his nutsack, broke the Geneva convention in a thousand million inventive ways. One by one they had broken his fingers, held hot metal against his feet.

He felt like he had run a hundred miles. His body wouldn’t listen to his brain: sit up, cover up, try and hide your weak spots.

But he wasn’t naked. How the hell wasn’t he naked? Why had they got Steve? Why was Steve … the pressure. His brain was making an emergency exit through his nose.

He didn’t know how he turned on his side. He didn’t know how the room was familiar. Something swam up: Steve’s room. He didn’t know why he was remembering so soon after a wipe. 

“Bucky,” said Steve. Serious voice. The get-out-of-here voice.

He tried to focus through light that hooked behind his eyes and burnt. Sunlight, why was there sunlight?

“Bucky,” said Steve again. 

His eyes wanted to roll shut. Fuck knows why he was here, Fuck knows what was happening, but he wasn’t being kicked about so why the hell not sleep until the next… whatever (don’t think; it hurts) next will be.

He always slept okay after a wipe. It was a few days in that sleep stopped. Might as well rest while he could.

“Bucky,” said Steve and he really wished Steve would stop making that sound, making that noise.

“Bucky, it’s okay. You’re safe. You’re in my flat.”

Huh?

“You’ve had a fit, it’s okay.”

Something in his head said not okay, then it said better than Hydra. Then it said sleep.

Steve helped him to their (their?) bed and he gave in, gave in to a brain that felt like damp cotton in a skull seven times too small. 

His head still hurt in his sleep. Steve laid himself behind him, holding his waist, head on his shoulder. 

He woke up in the red room, in the bank vault, in Brooklyn, in the Alps.

Every time he woke, Steve repeated softly where he was. In his bed. In DC. Safe. Steve held his flesh hand against the pillows, until he felt them, until he returned. 

It was dark when they stopped, when his head stopped pounding and his eyes started to register and he could fall into proper, dreamless sleep. He slept for sixteen hours. 

After five more resets, and a seriously bloody tongue, Steve looked at him.

“You need to see a doctor, Bucky.”

Bucky was not seeing a doctor. Not with their wires and their scopes and their cold hands everywhere.

Steve looked at him as if he were trying to charm a pigeon. He could fuck off. 

"So I do auto-reset,” said Bucky, “it’s probably built into the tech.”

“I don’t think it’s that,” said Steve. 

They didn’t like talking about lesions. About damage done. About the different sort of normal they lived with now because parts of the grey, walnut-shaped blancmange that had made James Buchanan Barnes himself were somehow missing in action.

“And what does Dr Rogers the fried brain expert think?” 

“I think you got epilepsy, Bucky.”  



	2. This Much I Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam teaches people how to recover.
> 
> Bucky teaches people how to compensate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There was a theft; this much I am told,  
> I was abandoned; this much I know."  
> Anne Sexton, Briar Rose. (poem itself triggering as hell, approach with caution.)
> 
>  
> 
> .

Sam sees the mind in terms of thought-feathers, feelings and sensations.

Bucky sees the mind in terms of wiring.

Sam navigates through the ghosts that crowd the VA room, hooking them to memories, laying them down to rest.

Bucky helps people relearn to cook omelettes, fill out disability claims, write shopping lists. Bucky sees no ghosts; he knows the people before are dead, he salvages the useful parts, and puts them back together into a kind of living.

Steve had never expected to find the splotch of black hair he wakes beside to be so functional, so calmly detached. Bucky still shaves at most once every five days, but he’s clean, he’s healthy, he’s paying taxes.

Just whose identity Bucky is paying taxes under remains a mystery. But Bucky is as at home in the day-centre as Sam is at the VA. Bucky wears gloves, but it’s not like Sam takes his wings to work either.

The other staff like Bucky; he’s quiet and focused. They don’t know it’s combat reflexes that tune him in to the clients secrets. That he can tell who is anxious, who is in trouble and who is having a good day because seventy years of battle training have taught him how to read every movement.

His stillness is infectious. It is not threatening. It creates space. 

Bucky has run out of words so he cocks his head politely and listens. It’s not empathy, but it is close enough to pass for it.

Sam deals with people with chunks of their soul blown away. People who have been made into machines by the necessities of war. 

Bucky deals with people with chunks of their brains blown away. People going about their daily lives when suddenly their machinery failed.

Sam teaches people how to recover.

Bucky teaches people how to compensate.

Both are calm in the face of horror. Both have startle reflexes from hell. Steve wonders when his dumb-ass friends got to be so smart.

Perhaps it makes sense. Sam is a child of the touchy-feely modem times, of essential oils and something called spirituality. Sam is emotionally literate. Steve wasn’t even sure Bucky was literate full stop, before.

Not true. Bucky was the stereotypical bright child who would not apply himself. He wanted to reach out, to touch life, to follow the tension in his muscles and the ache in his balls to adventure and adulthood.

Bucky was the child of technology, getting his hands dirty fixing the relics of cars that chugged and misfired through the depression, of homebuild radios, diesel fumes and the Stark Expo. It makes sense that he sees the mechanics.

Sam sees recovery in terms of social networks, personal values, faith. The things you cling on to when your buddy gets shot out of the sky.

Bucky sees survival in terms of electrons passing along the spidery dendrites. This is what you are, nothing more. He’s had that lesson burned into him.

But he reads now, voraciously, as if he’s hunting down something hidden in the pages of neurology textbooks. Every so often he has to ask Sam to explain a word, but he’s reading more in an evening now than Steve had seen him read in his whole life. Steve gets used to waking up with the taste of metal in his mouth and three different text books digging in his spine.

At the day-centre Bucky deals gently with relatives desperate to get the old person they knew back.

Steve doesn’t want the old Bucky back. Steve is falling in love all over again with his pretty mis-wired assassin. New Bucky can impale a Hydra agent on a kitchen knife quicker than they can pull the trigger, then calmly return to making lasagne.

New Bucky can teach Ciara Evans to speak to humans again. He can run through the rules of interaction, in bullet point form. He can rehearse them with her, over and over. He can smile when she reports five lines of conversation with the clerk at the grocery store.

Steve likes both the skin and its new inhabitant. He likes the resilience, the flesh tough beneath his fingers, the mind tough beneath its desire to understand.

Sam talks about therapeutic relationships. He talks about how grounding Steve is for Bucky, about regaining bodily integrity, about expressing feelings in a safe space.

Bucky knows Steve’s hand on his arm activates the GABA signalling pathways, damping down the histamine that he makes too much of, the chemical that keeps him cranky and alert.

Bucky knows when Steve kisses him it releases oxytocin, nature’s trick for pair bonding. Stimulating his lips produces the sensation of trust in a partner, keeps him in his body, makes orgasm deeper and more intense. 

It’s not empathy, but it will do for now.

He’s read a research article on it, how having friends close causes the body to churn out anti-inflammatories, aiding healing and soothing pain.

Steve always shut up when Bucky came and sat beside him. Whatever he had been dying of that time, and Steve had nearly died of almost everything back when they were kids, he always calmed down when Bucky showed up. 

Which was lucky because they could not afford a doctor.

Sam and Bucky share clients sometimes. They compliment each other, talking in low voices about which strategy will work for which grief and anger, which for a missing lobe in the brain.

Sam has flashbacks in colour, visuals and scent. Bucky sees his past like a film reel playing in the background, he’s aware of the scenes but they are not real to him, they are shadows on the silver screen.

It’s the words that cause Bucky to crunch up, for the system to flood with adrenaline; cramping the guts and sending needles into his muscle tissue.

It’s when the words break into his brain.

“You are the new fist of Hydra.”

Time slips. Time stops. Amygdala memories, spiky and timeless, of a body straining against leather straps, the familiar smell of blood now tainted with a metallic, oily tang. 

“It will do whatever you say, kill who you want, suck your dick if you swing that way.”

Men were laughing, men in black tac-gear, padded up to the hilt. Winter-boy was naked; awaiting armaments, awaiting a mission. He did not understand the burning inside him; a feeling heavier than failure was taunting him to recognise it. To drag him backwards to the pictures and the voices and the chair. Bucky recognises it now as shame.

“You have shaped the century.”

There was a theft. There was something stolen from him, right before his face, right against his stinging cheek. He had a memory, fluttering like a baby bird inside him. The first true memory, precious and feathered, something to treasure.

His cheek stings and the soft, golden fledgling dashed to pieces on the floor before him. It's death hurt worse than the pain. The theft - is the hurt and the fear he remembers when the taste of rubber fills his mouth. It is the thefts, the thousand thefts that hurt worse than the pain.

It is the words that flip the trip-switch in his limbic system, the animal brain, fight, flight or dissociate. Bucky can label the reactions on a diagram now, and somehow knowing what was going on made him feel better about slipping in time.

Sam knows what it’s like to give a part of you for your country.

Bucky knows what it is like to have a part of you stolen


	3. The dysfunctional brain club

Peggy: So this new visitor, is he here to speak with me or mug me?

Bucky: (Shrinks back a little into hoodie)

Peggy: Is that an incidence of fashion?

Steve: No Peggy (touching Bucky's arm) - it’s Bucky.

Bucky: Agent Carter, ma’am.

Peggy: It does make it very difficult to have dementia when ones long dead loved ones insist on returning in reality. 

Bucky: You could ask me a question only Bucky would know the answer to. That way you could check it wasn’t just your brain playing tricks.

Peggy: Give the exact location of Captain America’s birthmark.

Steve: (pinkens)

Bucky: Captain America has no birthmarks.

Peggy: Correct, at least according to his medical file. I’m going to have to take your word for on the ground reconnaissance, Sergeant Barnes, my intelligence in that area was very limited.

Steve: (looks between them) I am still here you know.

Peggy: (Pats his hand) I know Steve, it’s just, sometimes I wonder, if things had been as they are today - whether I would even have had a look in.

Bucky: oh no Peggy, he was gone on you. I mean, I seen that guy get punched out plenty, and the look on his face after a sucker-punch, that was the look on his face when he looked at you. He really admired you too, how hard you had to fight to get accepted back then. You’re a crack shot too, so I was told only about ten million times.

Peggy: Yes well, one rather had to be exceptional to be accepted as a woman back then.

Steve: He also looks terrible in a red dress.

Peggy: I remember that dress.

Bucky: I remember a lot of what was in that dress.

Steve: (steps super-soldier heavy on Bucky’s foot)

Peggy: Selfridges Sale 1943. I came out of the changing room and Mother said: ‘oh no Margaret. That’s the sort of thing you wear to get arrested.’ I blew a years worth of coupons on that dress.

Bucky: Morita cooked up this blend of fast-acting, high damage explosive, code name ‘red-dress’.

Peggy: (laughs) You made that up.

Bucky: (quietly- taking Peggy’s hand) He loved you. I don’t know how it would have worked out for Steve and I, but would have worked things out, we always do.

Peggy: It sounds like I could have ended up married to two strapping soldier boys.

Bucky: (smiles and takes Steve’s hand too) Well, at least you were saved that.

(They sit in silence for a while)

Peggy: is that another incidence of fashion? 

Bucky: (dropping Steve’s hand to wiggle his fingers.) No, I have a metal arm.

Peggy: The only time I’ve heard of such a thing was in the 70s - S.H.I.E.L.D. were chasing Intel on an assassin with one.

Steve: The Winter Soldier.

Peggy: Yes, yes that was it.

Bucky: (waving metal fingers) Ma'am.

Peggy: We had a damned hard time convincing people you exist.

Steve: They brainwashed him, Peggy. After he fell from the train, they brainwashed him and tortured him until he didn’t know who he was. And they froze him - kept him frozen in a storage tank when he wasn’t needed.

Peggy: I can see why you have a method for telling people from ghosts. (Smiles at Bucky) So you are in the dysfunctional brain club too, Sergeant Barnes? 

Bucky: ‘fraid so.

Steve: He’s doing - he’s seeing a lot of doctors, lots of therapists, he’s like tough as boot nails, we’re doing okay.

Bucky: What Steve means is I haven’t killed anyone since leaving HYDRA.

Peggy: How did you escape?

Steve: They sent him to kill me. He saved my life instead.

Peggy: Yes that was always HYDRA’s weakness, to underestimate the value of emotional connection between people.

Bucky: Steve made this big speech right before the fighting started. You’d have been so proud. You can download MP3s of it and even buy an ornamental figurine that recites it when you turn his shield. 

Peggy: (patting Bucky’s flesh hand) I think you’ll pull through.

Bucky: (gives a small smile) 

Steve: I hope so.

Bucky: (looking at pictures of Peggy with her family) Looks like you done swell, Peggy. 

Peggy: (Smiling) Yes, I can’t really complain can I? (Pauses) There is still one regret, one debt I still have to repay. You see, I owe Steve a dance.

Steve: (squeezing her hand) it’s probably for the best you missed that one.

Peggy: I was wondering if I could nominate Sergeant Barnes as my stand in. (Looks up, chin high) Bucky, take this young man dancing.

Bucky: Heard and understood, ma’am. (Leans over and kisses her cheek) I’ll take a check on the red dress though.  
(Kisses Steve’s cheek for good measure). So looks like I’m taking you dancing. 

Peggy: I shall expect a full report.

Bucky: Yes ma’am.

Peggy: Well Steve, it looks you are going to live your life after all


	4. Love Wins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 26/06/15 and Bucky is following the news feeds and smiling.
> 
> He's still not going to marry Steve, but it means a lot to have the choice.

Bucky had not moved from the news feeds all morning. By lunchtime Steve caught him still swiping at a Stark pad wearing the tiny twitch of a half-smile usually reserved for crack shots and sticky thighs.

“So you gonna make an honest man of me now, Buck?”

“Hell no.” Bucky continued to scroll. 

“Not the marrying kind?”

“Don’t need a ring on my finger to prove your stuck with me, Rogers.”

Steve kissed him. It was the only logical thing to do. To sit right down beside this person he’d fallen in love with twice, this person that knew he slept beside Steve before he remembered who lived in his body, and touch him, reassure him that the flesh could feel, the body let him in, the skin sense the touch.

“I know what it’s like to fight to be real,” said Bucky against his lips. “To be something that feels, that can have this.” He pulled Steve into his lap, still holding the Stark pad, moving his flesh hand against Steve’s side, grounding himself into the contact, holding the thing called Bucky inside his skin.

“I got a tag round my neck and a star on my arm, don’t need any more claims to own me.”

Steve nuzzled his neck, the side, not the back where the stun batons had screeched their current down his spine. Bucky’s body was still booby trapped, there was still enemy territory yet to be reclaimed. But if they were careful he could stay in his body long enough for them to touch and love each other to the moment the world went still, when they moved together with no fear and no memories and no shame. 

“Love wins,” said Bucky. “Whatever we do, love wins.”

“Yes Buck, yes it did.”

It did on the helicarrier, it did during the therapy sessions that left Bucky shaking and exhausted, it did when the nightmare stopped and the arms were there, the voice saying shush, shush you are safe now, sometimes Bucky’s sometimes Steve’s, it didn’t matter. It felt like their nightmares were a joint venture. Love won every time Bucky reclaimed a part of him, remembered he hated peas and loved sweet milkshakes. Remembered he could like and dislike. Love stood the pain to be real.

“Just feels like when you tell me I’m safe it’s a bit closer to the truth,” said Buck.

“I should probably go re-tweet something to show what side I’m on,” muttered Steve.

“You could start with Stark,” said Bucky, tapping Steve’s nose to draw his attention from his face to the screen, playing a clip of a paint-job rainbow Iron Man flying laps of Manhattan.

“Show off,” said Steve, “and he’s not even gay.”

“Not about being gay Steve, not about being married. Just about saying all love is equal; all love is good.”

Steve took Bucky’s flesh hand to his lips, kissed against the fingers, suckled at their tips. 

“It was always good Buck, never felt wrong with you for a minute.”

“But it was a thing, an issue. It was a monster, and now it has just become love.”

Steve considered, then took Bucky’s metal hand and gave it the same treatment.

“You know I can’t feel that.”

“But I can,” said Steve, flicking his tongue into the plates of Bucky’s fingers. “Want to feel it, all over.”

Bucky snorted but cradled the back of Steve’s head as he continued to love his metal hand. 

“Okay, that’s good,”

“Good,” said Steve, working his hand over Bucky’s chest, dipping them just beneath the neck line of his t-shirt as the metal warmed beneath his lips.

“Oooof!” Bucky pulled back hard against the sofa, dazed, the nowhere place creeping under his skin. 

“Not okay?”

“Don’t think the receptors understood the signals they were getting.” He hung his head and breathed heavily, because breath is living, breath is being real. 

“Need a glass of water or anything?”

“Need you to keep touching me Stevie,” Bucky pulled Steve back against his chest, “just not like that.”

Steve claimed his lips once more, the kiss so soft and comfortable it felt like they should always do it, that they belonged this way. Bucky moaned a little in the back of his throat and Steve pushed against him harder, deepening the kiss, making Bucky’s hips move, his body soften into Steve’s arms. They were going to continue, this was going to progress.

“It’s important to you.”

“Not often there’s good news out there,” whispered Bucky, a slight hitch in his throat, his body moving closer to Steve’s so it touched him completely. “Not often the monster just melts into love.”

“It’s a good day to be Captain America,” said Steve.

“Yeah,” said Bucky, a little dreamily, “yeah. You should go flash a rainbow shield or something. You should definitely do some Proud Captain America shit.” Bucky slid a hand meaningfully around Steve’s waist, gently cupping the swell of his ass. “Just let me take care of Steve Rogers first.”


	5. Brooklyn - We Go Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm two stinky, shagged out supersoldier on a mattress on the floor. Lazy, morning after sex where Bucky feels good about himself and takes care of his little (240lb 6' 2") Stevie.
> 
> Inspired (ish) by this [ amazing fanvid.](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=zJzMbJFux4w)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case it is a squick for anyone, like most two handed people, Buck uses both hands during sex. So there's some very intimate touching with a metal hand.

"Hey," Steve’s breath on his cheek was heavy, sultry with the sweetwater memory of Bucky’s body.

The room too smelt delicious; salty, well- worn musk just on the verge of turning fetid. The blankets were a swamp mined with hard crispy knots.

Bucky smiled and rolled onto his back, basking in the squalor he had wrought. Steve’s neat little bedroom now smelt like the worst kind of brothel. He itched his balls and turned to Steve.

“Mornin’ cockbreath,” he stretched until his back popped a little. “You look fucked.”

“Asshole,” muttered Steve, moving a stringy strand of hair out of Buck's eyes. 

“Asshole's doin’ fine. No thanks to you.”

Steve’s eyes were moist, his mouth still slightly swollen, as he languidly moved into the heat of Bucky's body, sweat sharp as acetone leaching from beneath his arms. Bucky rolled to let Steve lie flush against him, ignoring the dry scratch along their bellies.

"You’re beautiful, Buck.”

“Aw you’re just fuck-drunk, Stevie.”

Steve shook his head and kissed him, soft, bruised lips against bruised lips. The taste of himself in his lover’s mouth had always got Buck going, struck something primal and possessive in him. You taste of me. You swallowed my seed.

And it was Steve. It was Steve whose natural taste he had over-written with the salty, faintly meaty taste of his own cock, Steve whose mouth was still full of the deep musk of his arousal. It wrenched at something deep in his stomach, deep against his spine, Steve.

“Not so bad tasting?” 

Steve had pulled back. Bucky realised he’d been making contented little moans.

Fuck, he was wrecked. They were big boys, him and Steve, and Steve liked to push his body to the limit. Like with the running, Bucky guessed, Steve liked to get really physical, to flex his muscles and stretch his stamina. 

“We really ought to do something about this,” said Steve lazily, running the hand not on Bucky’s back over the edge of the mattress.

“Aw fuck it Stevie. We slept on worse than this.”

Done more than sleep too, when they got the chance. Bucky wondered if they had always been this horny. Must have been a side-effect of the serum.

Every drop of sex they'd squeezed out of each other's struggling bodies last night hung thick in the air, making Buck lazy and carefree. Steve was nibbling his shoulder. Bucky groaned and wondered if he had it in him to go again.

A coda, he thought. After the grand symphony. He’d stopped counting orgasms after Steve ripped the fifth out of him and right now he wasn’t sure if his dick would ever get hard again.

“You need a decent bed for your back.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. Like Stevie had given any fucks about his kinky spine during last night’s activities.

It was like having a sports car, you want to push it to the limit, see how fast it would take you. And if Zola hadn’t intended to gift Stevie with a lover who could fuck the breath out of him, it was a nice screw you to the weasely Swiss shit. 

"I like it. Easy grab for the critical materiel.”

“Buck, we’ve talked about guns in the bedroom.”

“I meant lube and condoms.”

No less than four slimy yellowish tubes lay discarded in his line of sight. He was sure there were more, booby-trapping the hardwood floor, lying in wait to test his balance reflexes.

Steve's hand was circling lower against his back. Bucky felt movement against his thighs. Fuck, Stevie could go again. Damn you Dr Erskine.

"Maybe Pepper could make enquiries?”

Bucky propped himself up on his elbows and laughed.

“Stevie, you want a bed you go into a shop and you buy one. See these things,” Bucky reached down and cupped Steve’s balls, “these things that were slapping my ass for a good three hours last night? You are going to accept that you own these and you’re not going to get some dame to do your dirty work for you.”

Bucky let Steve’s balls go with a gentle roll. There was definite interest down there now, probably a better option than listening to Steve fuss about furniture even though Bucky wasn't sure that everything below his waist hadn’t turned to liquid.

Maybe a nice sloppy handjob? Mmm that’s a thought. Cuddling his come-stained Stevie to his chest and bringing him off reviewing last night's greatest hits.

The liquid beneath his waist was now pleasantly warm.

“Couldn't you do it?”

Bucky warmed his metal hand in the palm of his right. 

“I’m fine down here.” The lube was, indeed in very easy reach.

They broke Steve’s bed exactly how you’d expect five hundred pounds of amorous supersoldier metal and muscle would. The minute they’d really cut loose, Bucky was nearly brained by a headboard and nearly crippled by his hips crashing into the floor closely followed by the entire weight of Steve.

Really, a lesser man could have died. As it was, the pain was soon dulled by the honey coloured amusement of an entire rapid response fire-arms team breaking the door down, ready to rescue Captain America from the evil clutches of his brainwashed assassin boyfriend.

He had known Steve all his life, but he had never seen him blush so deep, so adorably right down his chest.

Yeah, definitely in the mood for this. Steve was still flustering over the bed when Bucky brought his slicked hand down to his cock.

“You want a bed,” whispered Bucky into his ear, just gently teasing the tip of Steve’s half hard cock, “you go buy one. Tell the store guy that you’re sharing with a guy with 20lb on you, and you don’t just use it for sleeping.”

Steve was biting his lip, either at the embarrassing prospect of asking for a bed explicitly to fuck in, or because Bucky’s hand had now settled around the head of his cock, twisting in strong strokes upward.

“Tell him the guy who fucks you goes at you like a freight train, likes you on your hands and knees, pulsing deep into your belly,”

Steve was now fully hard. Buck had to be careful with this next bit, he knew the pressure sensors in his left hand were good, but it didn’t stop it being powerful. It didn’t stop Steve making the most delicious squeal as the cool metal touched the shaft of his cock.

“You like being on your hands and knees, don’t you Stevie? You like it ‘cos of how deep I can fill you, don’t you baby, an’ I sure as hell can’t get enough of the sight of Steven Grant Rogers greedy asshole eating up my cock.”

“Oh God Buck, oh God yes.”

Bucky liked Steve under the influence of sex. When the crease between his eyebrows melted away and he flushed pink down to his rosy nipples. Shit, were those teeth marks? When did that happen? They must be sore. They must be sensitive.

Bucky dipped his head to kiss one tight, bruised pink nipple better. If he was a little rough with his chapped lips, Steve was a big boy. The nub hardened in his mouth and Bucky felt Steve starting to thrust up into his hand.

Bucky felt the push against his hand and pushed back hard, holding steady, giving Stevie lots of lovely friction as he bucked his hips hard.

“There you go,” said Bucky. That feeling good baby? You know you can let go with me baby, thrust those hips as hard as you can, I can take it.”

Steve was thrusting hard enough to dislocate an un-enhanced arm. Bucky’s hand didn’t move from level, still twisting on Steve’s fully filled cock-head.

“I’ma takin’ good care of my Stevie after he took my cock so good.”

“Lower,” gasped Steve.

Bucky withdrew his left hand from Steve’s balls and started to circle beneath them. Steve was squirming his hips to guide him to the right place, groaning in relief when he found it.

“Or maybe you wanna tell him how you need the headboard real strong so I can hold on tight when you’re filling me. How you need the bed strong for your boy to shake and plead when you eat him out 'till he can't breathe? When you spread his cheeks and take your sweet time licking out his hole? You love getting to eat his ass out don’t you?”

“And you don’t,” panted Steve, getting good and ready for another climax. Two, three minutes tops and he’d have a nice boneless Steve in his arms and more come drying on their bellies.

"You’re so good to me,” Bucky purred, “my ass was begging to be filled but I didn’t want you to stop. I didn’t never want you to stop.”

“Wanna be inside you Buck, want it so bad.”

Steve’s hands were clawing at him. Anytime soon now. Steve liked the physical, but Bucky, he liked to be mind-fucked. He liked words. Dirty texts, playing games. Maybe other things they could try when he was a little more together. Between them both, they were the dream team of sex.

Bucky continued circling the sweet spot on Steve’s perineum with his index finger, feeling the metal ripple as Steve quivered at the contact. He let his pinky finger tease the rim of Steve’s hole, featherlight really, but still sensitive from last night’s work out.

He’d like to try a toy with Steve soon. Just the two of them, mucking about with a vibrator or something. Maybe he’d bring it up. 

Steve on his belly with Buck lying between his spread legs, watching his ass twitch around a vibrating dildo. Hmm. He could watch all day.

Oh fuck, look’s like it wasn’t only Stevie up for another round. He’s been rutting against Steve’s hipbone for the past however long and feels like he’s as bout as close to popping as his boy is.

“God I want you inside me Stevie,” he grunts, “nothing feels as good as having you in my ass.”

They’re going for gold now, on the home strait. Steve’s got his hands around Bucky’s ass, guiding his thrusts and re-awakening the warm burn inside him from spending so long on a super-soldiers cock.

“Fuck you’re huge Steve, oh god my Stevie fills me so good.”

Steve looks up and smiles and they grunt at each other for another painful few minutes, Stevie biting his lip and whining, 

“God I need to come.” 

"We're gonna get there, Stevie.”

Steve’s hole is still slick from last night, still Bucky scoops up what lube he can before he slips the first finger in. Steve mewls in gratitude as he feels the stretch, knowing how deft those metal fingers are, knowing he’s about to get the stimulation he needs.

“Oh God, oh right there Bucky, right there I’ma gonna…”

“Hold on I’m right behind you.”

“Fuck, Bucky, your fingers –so good.”

Screw you Zola, getting’ my baby Steve his favourite sex toy.

“Stevie, baby – so good.” 

Bucky shifted so his cock was flush to Steve’s, so he could take them both in one hand. 

“Ready baby,”

Steve came a fraction of a second before Bucky, eyes locked, what come they had left spilling together over Bucky’s flesh hand as he milked them through it, shocked and panting. Once the last spikes of orgasm drained from him he collapsed, heart hammering, body nerveless against the bed.

“Mm,” said Steve, kissing his neck about five minutes, or whenever his hearing returned. “I’m going to get a glass of water. You want anything?”

“Fuck off I’m dead,” muttered Bucky.

“I’ll get you a coffee,” said Steve.

Bucky buried his head in the pillows and drifted somewhere very warm and safe. SSR beat Hydra hands down.


End file.
